


If Only I Could Make You Mine

by Inclination



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Oh god, Someone stop me, sexy dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6243259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inclination/pseuds/Inclination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(aka Ru's White Day fic)</p><p>Tim rarely dreams, but when he does, he dreams of Batman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only I Could Make You Mine

Tim rarely dreams, but when he does, he dreams of Batman. Usually his dreams are dark - he flies over a black and white Gotham, the red, gold and green of his Robin uniform the only colours in sight. He’s always desperately playing catch-up with Bruce, who swings through the night sky light always tantalisingly beyond his reach.

Sometimes, the dreams are different though. A strong, stubbled jaw-line; blazing eyes hidden behind the lenses of the cowl; the rough thumb of Batman’s gauntleted hand in his mouth, pressing down hard against his tongue as he desperately tries to suck.

Tonight is one of _those_ dreams.

Tim wakes suddenly, sitting up, and is almost immediately aware of two things. One, that there is someone in the room with him – his bedroom is pitch-black (all the windows in Wayne Manor are fitted with the highest quality black-out curtains that money can buy) but he’s _Robin_ , and Robin would never last five minutes on the streets of Gotham without a keen sixth-sense, without _knowing_ when you’re being watched from a dark corner. So, one, there’s someone in the room with him. And, two, he’s achingly hard.

Thankfully, there’s another thing that Robins have a keen sixth sense for, and that’s Batman. Tim strains his ears against the silence of the room, praying for Bruce to make any sound, trying to catch the sound of those deep, steady breaths. Of course, there’s nothing.

Tim lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and takes a deep breath in. He’s tired, and his cock is throbbing and Bruce is in the room with him and. And.

He’s wanted for so long. He’s seen Bruce’s eyes lingering on him for just a moment longer than necessary more than once, and seen the tension in the lines of Bruce’s back when they shower together in the cave. One precious time, he had felt Bruce’s hardness press against his hip as they’d sparred together. Neither one of them had said anything afterwards, but they had both _known_.

Tim wonders if Bruce is as hard as he is right now. Then, he stops thinking at all, and shoves his hand down his pyjama pants.

He can’t help the soft moan that escapes as he wraps his hand around himself and squeezes gently. There’s pre-cum already beading at the head of his cock, and Tim smears his thumb in it, biting his lip to escape further noise from escaping. He leans back against his pillows, shimmies his pyjama pants down his hips, plants both feet flat on the bed, and begins to stroke in earnest. Part of him wants to close his eyes, return to the dream and lose himself in fantasy, but a part of him that he can’t shake insists he keeps his eyes open, straining in vain against the dark, willing himself to see something, _anything_ of Bruce.

He uses the rhythm that he imagines Bruce would give him: almost punishingly fast, and dirty, and squeezing himself at irregular intervals hard enough to make it hurt, to make his toes curl. He’s always liked it better when it hurts – _when you hurt for Batman,_ a small voice at the back of his head supplies, and Tim lets his mouth drop open as he gasps through the pain.

His left hand travels up his side, his own fingers too small and soft to be truly satisfactory, and he grabs his left nipple, pinching and twisting even as his dick twitches at the sting. The pre-cum is flowing steadily now; he’s always leaked quite a bit when aroused but right now he’s positively _slick._ He refuses to let up on the rhythm, breathing loudly through his mouth, and doing everything within his power not to just give in and _beg_ for Bruce to touch him.

He releases his nipple and sucks two fingers into his mouth. It’s enough like his dream that he can’t help but let out a muffled moan, but his own fingers are different enough from Bruce’s strong, gauntleted hand that the moan is tinged with frustration. He’s close now – he can’t stop his hips from snapping up to meet his fist, can’t stop sucking on and moaning around his own fingers, a thread of drool escaping the corner of his mouth and making its way down his chin.

He imagines what he would look like if Bruce could actually _see_ him: gasping and straining and fucking his own fist, and is almost thankful for the surrounding darkness as he feels his face flush. Tim groans at the thought – doing this in the light, looking Bruce in the eyes as Tim touches himself and thinks of him – it’s too much. Tim’s hips buck upwards, and his back arches almost painfully as he comes and gasps Bruce’s name.

It takes Tim a minute or two to be able to form coherent thoughts again, and when he does, he’s lying on his side, half curled in on himself. He’s going to be a sticky mess in the morning if he doesn’t clean up, but right now, he feels entirely too boneless to care. He closes his eyes.

It takes a moment, but Tim hears his bedroom door open, and then close. He smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY WHITE DAY TO MY BABE, TUTU-SAMA. I hope you enjoyed this. Love u


End file.
